The Strike Out

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Isn’t he only a year younger?” I ask, letting my Brentwood baseball knowledge slip, and because Holt is the bastard he is, he doesn’t let it go.

  “So, you know what years we are, huh? Interesting. I thought you hated baseball.”

  “I don’t hate baseball,” I say, tucking my tray more securely under my arm. “I hate Brentwood athletes.”

  “You can’t like the sport but hate the players. That makes no sense.”

  “Not true.” I shake my head. “I grew up watching the Bobbies, and I enjoyed the atmosphere and the sport. I would give the team a cheer every now and again. And Hendrix on the mound.” I clutch my heart. “He’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

  All the boys sneer as if I just said I thought an ogre was the most attractive person I’ve ever seen.

  “Hendrix?” Holt asks. “Gary Hendrix, the lefty?”

  “Yeah. Gary. So dreamy.”

  “He throws up before every game, sometimes on the mound, claims it’s from adrenaline, and always has bubblegum stuck in his weed-like beard. He’s filthy.”

  “Yes, the gum and vomiting don’t give him checks in the attractive box, but his beard, his tattoos, and the ice-blue eyes under his brim do. Plus, I’ve seen him with his shirt off, and he’s ripped.”

  Holt glares at me. “Beard and tattoos are your thing?”

  I nod very slowly.

  Knox laughs and says, “You have no shot at scoring her number now, Holt. You’re as clean-cut as they come.”

  Scoring my number? That’s interesting.

  When I see Holt’s cheeks burn with embarrassment, I realize there’s some truth to that, and I wonder what they said when I left the table.

  Probably something about my ass—it’s my best attribute, after all. But they probably spoke more about my uncouth mouth that ran on longer than even I expected. A woman who holds nothing back.

  I know that love story. She challenges him. She’s different. She’s unlike anyone he’s ever met, blah, blah, blah. I don’t want to be someone’s challenge.

  I actually don’t want to be someone’s anything.

  I’m here at Brentwood for one reason: to earn a degree in journalism and then get the hell out of here.

  Two more years. I’m so close.

  Chapter Three

  HOLT

  “Are you going to be sour for the rest of the night?” Knox asks, kicking me from under the table.

  I pick at my French fries, salty as fuck. Me, not the fries, although they could benefit from a little seasoning.

  “You didn’t have to fucking say I was trying to score her number,” I hiss at my friends, who laugh. “I was kidding.”

  “Nah, I saw the way you were checking out her butt when she walked away,” Carson says. “You want her number. Want me to ask her for it for you?”

  “Fuck off. I was not checking her out.”

  Carson and Knox exchange glances and mock me with their boisterous laughter.

  Meanwhile, Jason taps me on the shoulder and asks, “Do you think they make sweet potato fries just like regular ones?”

  I try not to punch the guy in the face for such an idiotic question. He’s not dumb as rocks like he seems. He’s the sensitive one, the guy who loves to grill for the team, the mother hen of the group . . . and the idiot when he’s drunk.

  “I suggest you lower the fry, dude,” Carson says from across the table. “Holt looks as if he’s about to plow his fist through your face.”

  “Why are you getting so angry? You’re usually chill.”

  “Because”—I push my plate away—“that girl is judging us for all the wrong reasons. She doesn’t know the hours it takes to play at the elite level we play at. She doesn’t understand the stress of it all, the time devoted just to baseball. She has no fucking clue and that’s pissing me off.”

  “Then why don’t you tell her?” Knox whispers as Harmony steps up to our table.

  She lays a check on the table and says, “Whenever you’re ready, no rush. Please, stay here as long as you want.” Sarcasm drips from her voice. “Throw up in our toilets a little more.”

  Jason presses his palm to his stomach. “I’m feeling much better, thank you.”

  “She didn’t ask,” Carson mutters with an eye roll.

  I pull my wallet from my back pocket and throw down a few twenties. “We’re all set. Come on, boys.” I push Jason out of the booth and Knox and Carson follow closely behind. We’re halfway to the door when Harmony pulls me by the arm.

  “You left too much.” She holds up the twenties I threw down.

  “Your service was impeccable.” I start to move forward again when she tugs on my shirt.

  “I don’t need your charity.”

  “It’s not charity.”

  “A sixty-dollar tip for a forty-dollar meal is charity. I don’t need you flashing your wealth at me.”

  “I’m not flashing it. I’m trying to be nice, and frankly, it’s insulting that you’re even questioning my tip. Be grateful rather than argue with me about it.”

  Before she can answer, I pull away again just as Carson says, “He wants your number too, in case you were wondering.”

  “I’m going to murder you,” I say under my breath as we head out of the diner, the bell above the door ringing at our departure. I push Carson on the sidewalk and ask, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “With me?” He points to his chest as he walks backward, talking to me. “What’s wrong with you? That girl was hot and clearly you’re interested, so why not ask for her number?”

  “Maybe because she hates me. She didn’t keep her feelings to herself when it comes to Brentwood athletes.”

  “Which is why you should prove her wrong,” Knox says, joining in. “Those who don’t worship us on campus think we’re assholes because of all the perks and breaks we get, but they don’t really know everything we do to earn them, nor do they see all the hours of community service we put in. Show her we’re good people.”

  “Nah.” I shake my head, glancing back at the diner, where I catch a brief glimpse of Harmony clearing our table. “It’s not worth my time. I know girls like her, and she’s never going to change her mind. She has one opinion and that’s all that matters.”

  “Such a shame,” Jason says. “You two would have been a good couple.”

  “Why do you say that? You don’t even know her.”

  Jason casually shrugs. “You both seem to have the same kind of fiery passion—granted, about different things, but still, it’s there—which means you’d probably have the best sex of your life with her.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” Carson says.

  “He has a good point.” Knox nudges me with his shoulder.

  I shake them off. “Might be good, but not worth my time. She’d only hurt my fragile soul in the end.”

  Everyone laughs and keeps walking toward the baseball loft, while I consider actually going back to the diner to get her number.

  I like fire. I like passion. And I like a girl who’s not afraid to tell me to stick it up my ass.

  I might put up a front of indifference, but with each moment that passes, I’m thinking she’s totally worth my time.

  * * *

  Coffee in hand, a day off ahead of us, I lean back in my desk chair and wait for my computer to turn on. Slightly hungover from last night, I popped some Ibuprofen, downed a frozen breakfast burrito—heated in the microwave, of course—and made myself the biggest cup of coffee I could find. It’s nine in the morning and all the guys are still sleeping, which gives me time to do what I wanted to do last night before I flopped on my bed and passed out, pants halfway off my legs.

  Classy as fuck.

  After signing in to my computer, I pull up the student registry, sort by first name, and start scrolling through the H names. There can’t be many Harmonys in the—Two.

  I smile to myself and look at their graduation year. Harmony Styles is the winner.

  Because I’m the creep that I am
, I pull up Instagram, hoping she doesn’t have her profile set to private, and type in her name.

  When I see her grid of pictures, I snicker. This almost seems too easy.

  In the about me section, there’s some hoity-toity Shakespeare quote that does nothing for me, followed by a bunch of emojis.

  Brazilian flag. Okay, that explains that sexy ass.

  Peanut. Huh, either a nickname or she likes peanuts.

  A pen. Is she a writer? That would explain the Shakespeare quote.

  Flamenco dancer. Does she like to dance?

  I scan her pictures quickly and find one of her wearing a short, glittery, pink dress that accentuates her every curve, and laughing while a beefy-looking guy spins her around.

  Is that her boyfriend?

  I scan the date. It’s several months ago and there’s not another picture with him. Okay, maybe not a boyfriend.

  I go back up to the top and click on her stories to see if she’s up to anything today.

  There’s a boomerang of her in her waitress uniform with a comment that says, “Another day serving up grease.”

  It’s the best grease in town.

  The next one is of her coffee mug with a timestamp of seven this morning, followed by her drinking the coffee with massive bedhead.

  Fuck, she looks sexy in an off-the-shoulder sweater, hair falling over one eye. Yeah, we’d have some passionate sex, that’s for damn sure.

  The last story nearly shakes me out of my shorts. It’s a full body shot of her in a yellow bikini, blowing a kiss to the camera, with the comment “41st Street Beach all day!”

  I smile to myself, knowing exactly what I’ll be doing today . . . scanning the 41st Street Beach for a hot yellow bikini and an opinionated, sexy-as-hell Brazilian. “Coming for you, sweet Harmony. Game on.”

  Chapter Four

  HARMONY

  “Thank God that band is done. That was torture,” Priya says next to me while adjusting her floppy hat.

  “I thought you had to audition to play today.”

  “Apparently not.” Priya applies more sunscreen. “Covering Vince Gill and Randy Travis songs should be criminal. Hopefully the next band has more up-to-date music. I wouldn’t mind a little Sam Smith remix at this point.”

  “You wouldn’t mind a Sam Smith remix at any point in time.”

  “His voice is just so smooth.”

  Chuckling, I drink the rest of my lemonade and stand. “I’m going to get another lemonade, and I think one of those funnel cakes I keep smelling.” I pull out a twenty from my bra cup and say, “Thanks to Holt Green, I have some extra food cash. Want another drink?”

  “I’m good, but I hope you plan on sharing that funnel cake.”

  “It’s the size of a dinner plate. Of course I’m sharing it.” Cash in hand, reusable cup in the other, I trot across the sand toward the concession stand to grab the very healthy lunch I have planned for myself. After Holt left me a sixty-dollar tip, I told myself I’d only use twenty of it for food. I set some cash aside for a few drinks, but now that I have a little more, I can skip the cheap protein bar I packed for myself and indulge a little.

  Even though the tip was outrageous and confirmed the self-righteous attitude I thought of when it came to those guys, I also didn’t want to push too hard to give it back to him, because sixty dollars felt like two hundred in my hand last night.

  It seemed wrong, pocketing the huge tip, but I convinced myself I earned it after serving those guys, not that they were hard to deal with. Holt was rude, but I still had to put up with them, and that alone is worth sixty dollars.

  Thankfully the beach isn’t too crowded, so the line for the concession stand isn’t terribly long. Just like everyone else in line, I rely on my phone to keep me company and start going through Instagram and all my friends’ stories. A lot of end-of-summer parties in Nebraska, parties I couldn’t attend because driving back and forth from Nebraska costs a lot in gas and takes forever. I don’t have forever, especially with my job. I take all the hours I can get and then hoard my cash. I’m on a partial scholarship, because my parents make next to nothing and my grades are pretty good, and I have a small loan for the other half of my tuition and books, but I’m paying it off as I go, never wanting to be one of those students who graduates one hundred thousand dollars in debt.

  But today . . . today is my day, and I’m grateful for the much-needed time off. It’s sunny with a light breeze coming off the water, the music is good—with the exception of that last band—and I’m about to go into a sugar coma. Nothing could ruin this.

  “Did you leave the other half of your bathing suit at home?”

  I still.

  That voice.

  How do I know that voice?

  A strong presence overshadows me and, as I slowly turn around, I realize I thought too soon. Here’s something that could ruin my day, after all.

  Holt Green.

  Wearing nothing but a pair of hot-pink trunks and black Ray-Bans, he looks like a catalogue model straight from the eighties, but ripped with stacks upon stacks of muscles covering his biceps, his pecs, and his stomach.

  He’s been hiding a world of sexy under his jersey.

  How annoying. Couldn’t he at least be hideous without a shirt on? It’s only fair. Talented, rich, smart, and incredibly good-looking—did God spend all His time making Holt Green and give the rest of the men in his birth month the cold shoulder?

  Arms folded and giving him the best scowl I can muster, I say, “Is that really how you’re going to talk to a woman? Address her lack of clothing? Ever think we can wear whatever the hell we want without the approval of the male species?”

  “Wasn’t giving you my approval.”

  “Then what was the point of your comment?”

  “Conversation starter.”

  The line moves and we both fall in step, inching closer to the concession stand.

  “That’s a terrible conversation starter, because all it did was piss me off.”

  “Yeah, but it got you talking.” He smiles smugly. “After our attempt at conversation last night, I wasn’t sure you’d even take the time to speak to me, so figured I’d trigger a response out of you.”

  “Wow, that’s a terrible idea, because now all I want to do is kick you in the crotch.”

  The arrogant ass cups his junk and says, “Balls of steel, baby. Take your best shot.”

  My mouth falls open and my leg itches to rear back. “You did not just grab your balls in front of me.”

  He laughs. “I grab my balls in front of thousands of people all the time. Jockstraps will do that to you.”

  Studying him, arms still folded, I say, “You’re really annoying, you know that?”

  “People actually find me to be quite charming.”

  “Clearly they haven’t seen this side of you.” I gesture to his body, which only causes him to flex in many different ways as he glances down to take himself in.

  “Not many people are privileged to see me with my shirt off. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Okay, that’s it. I’m done with this conversation.

  Full of himself, arrogant . . . annoying, no thanks. This is my day off—my only day off in I don’t know how long—and I’m not going to spend it getting agitated with a Brentwood baseball player who thinks he walks on gold-speckled water.

  With a roll of my eyes, I spin back around and take another step forward. Two people away; I can ignore him for that long.

  What are the chances that I’d run into him here? Shouldn’t he be training or something? He doesn’t seem like a cover band kind of guy, more like someone who’d be pumping themselves up for the Billy Eilish concert tonight at the United Center.

  “You know, if you want to talk about something else, that’s all you need to do. You don’t need to give me the cold shoulder.” He leans over, his chest so close to my back that I can feel his heat burn my skin.

  The proximity ignites a flame inside me, the whisper of his voic
e throwing fuel onto that flame. Unfortunately, there’s no denying the way my body reacts to him. His masculinity is overpowering, obvious in every move he makes, every word he speaks. Confidence consumes him, which is a big turn-on but also extremely annoying.

  Without turning around, I say, “You must not be very perceptive. The last thing I want is for you to talk to me. It’s why I turned my back.”

  “Oh, I thought it was because you wanted to give me a better view of your delicious ass.”

  “Keep your hands to yourself.”

  He holds his hands up, his large palms facing me. “Wouldn’t dream of touching you without your permission, but I’m not going to lie, my eyes are fucking you right now.”

  Men . . .

  “Could you be any more cliché?”

  “I can.” He leans in closer, his lips so close to my ear that goosebumps spread up and down my arms and legs. “Did you just fall from heaven? Because you’re an angel.”

  I shake my head.

  “Are you from Tennessee? Because you’re the only ten I see.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?”

  “Pathetic.” I hold back my laugh.

  “Do you have a map? Because I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

  “You don’t even know what color they are.”

  He steps up even closer, his rock-hard chest pressing against my back as his hand falls to my exposed hipbone. “They’re brown, but not just any kind of brown. They’re a dark chocolate, so dark that I can’t decipher where your pupils begin and end. They’re mysterious, and if you took off your sunglasses right now, I know I’d get lost in them for at least the next five minutes.”

  Warning bells are going off in my head, alerting me to step away, to flee the premises, because, ladies . . . we have a very smooth talker. A talker who easily gets you out of your pants with an additional flash of a roguish eyebrow. A talker who gives you the most passionate night of your life, only to make you wake up on your own. A talker who’s detrimental to any woman’s will.